


so here we are, we're just two losers

by hint2bee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU - Apocalypse Actually Happens (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Drawing, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Soul-Searching, must a fic be good? is it not enough for two people to be tender together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hint2bee/pseuds/hint2bee
Summary: An angel and a demon fail to save the world. They find a place among the stars, and they are displaced. Sometimes you must be displaced to remember where you belong, why you belong.A short story on separation, reunion, and the benefits of being good at sketching.





	so here we are, we're just two losers

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all I'm still sad and gay so here's this I guess? Maybe I'll write more. Maybe not. Maybe I'll finish an original work for once and publish it. I tagged it angst but there's not really??? it's just a brief moment before rekindling happens.
> 
> title from "Boyish" by Japanese Breakfast (THE LYRICS LIGHTLY INSPIRE THE SEPARATION PART BUT DON'T WORRY THEY END UP HAPPY)

When humans died, their deaths caused small ripples in the universe that usually corrected themselves within hours, maybe days if the human had been especially important or influential. These ripples did nothing to change the world, or even throw it off course. Unless you were in the immediate family of the person who died, you didn’t even think about it most of the time.

When the world dies, not much is different.

There is a boom, and then there is nothing, they are gone. 

The battle for Earth, won by no one, ended by nothing. Heaven and Hell cumulatively shrugged, declared themselves victorious, and retreated.

But what to do with the traitors?

Aziraphale’s corporation caught flame, vanished. Crowley’s corporation hit the water, disintegrated.

Heaven and Hell were pleased. Not scared, like they might have been in another universe, where the Earth is standing, but happy, content in the punishment given.

“Is anyone watching?”

“No.”

Proxima Centauri is oft overlooked in the greater scheme of things. They all focused on Earth. No one ever focused on the humans outside of Earth. Favorite children and such.

The demon Crowley, formerly of angelic fame, and the angel Aziraphale, who was no longer truly holy, resolve into existence on Proxima b, a fairly populated planet, experiencing their own unique cultural renaissance. No duck-billed aliens reside here, no amorphous blobs. The individuals on this planet, slightly taller, slightly more muscled, are still human.

“Well. That certainly was interesting,” Aziraphale, returned to his own corporation says, thinking about moments before, as he had watched his dearest friend, himself, melt under holy water.

“Interesting? That’s a hell of a word to describe it!” Crowley exclaims, to the disdain of a nearby fisherman. They’ve resolved onto the shoreline of what appears to be a silver ocean, and no one around them has really taken notice, as humans are one to do.

“Just like Earth,” Aziraphale murmurs.

“Aw, don’t get nostalgic on me, angel,” Crowley snaps, pulling his coat closer to him. It’s chilly out.

“It died hours ago!” Aziraphale says, and Crowley rolls his eyes. They’re silent for a moment, trying to figure out where they go from here. Where can they even go from here?

“Thank you for listening. Thank you for coming with me,” Crowley says, and he looks at Aziraphale, whose face is stormy, his eyebrows furrowed in a way that Crowley has never really seen.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley feels the knife of despair in his chest.

“It was—”

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale says. They’re quiet for another long moment while Crowley thinks, and for the first time, really looks around where they are. The grass is still green, chlorophyll is a constant on all populated planets, he supposes. The sun is a pale blue color, obscured slightly by the thicker atmosphere, which he supposes explains the slight chill. The water is smooth, calm, barely moving with the light wind that blows around them.

They’re silent long enough for the two of them to see the sun move.

“How about we find somewhere to get dinner? Try a new cuisine. Fun stuff, angel!” Crowley says, trying to excite his compatriot. 

“I’m not quite hungry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he walks away.

Crowley is silent for so long, unmoving for so long, that he doesn’t even pay attention to which way the angel walks.

* * *

 

There is a time where they don’t see each other, as it was in the beginning on Earth. Crowley keeps his ear to the ground, but knows Aziraphale is very good at covering his tracks, so he doesn’t hurt himself looking.

Crowley doesn’t really know how to spend his time now that fermenting evil isn’t his part-time job, so he just… watches. He goes to the wonderfully kept public gardens on the planet, he wanders the back alleys of the cities. He explores. He grows.

It’s not at all a day that stands out, the day that he starts sketching. They’re small sketches at first, little doodles of plants and trees that he finds endearing, or particularly annoying.

Then it grows to people.

He draws the locals, the humans not of Earth. First he draws anyone who’s sitting for longer than a few minutes, keeping it a quiet secret. Then he starts to draw people in motion, people playing fetch with their pets (because they are humans, they still found ways to domesticate the local wildlife), people shopping in the boutiques, people sitting and picnicking at the park.

He remembers a promised picnic, in 1967, that never came to fruition.

“What’re you drawing, Mr. Crowley?” his waiter asks him one day, startling him out of his reverie, where he’s been drawing a couple, sipping tea together at an outdoor cafe.

“Just. Things. Here and there. The riff raff,” Crowley mutters, scribbling across the drawing with his pen.

“It’s real good. Real polished for a sketch,” the waiter says, and Crowley turns up to look at him, her studies his face. A sloped forehead, slightly elongated eyes, full lips. Yes, a unique one indeed.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, quietly and the man walks off, and Crowley returns to sketching.

His waiter returns a few minutes later to collect Crowley’s dishes.

“I have something for you,” Crowley says, handing his waiter the folded up portrait that the demon drew of him. “I couldn’t get the hair quite right, you’re in quite the purgatory between curly and wavy, and I wasn’t sure what to do with the chin, but I think it’s fair.”

The man opens up the folded paper, and Crowley has the sudden and pervasive urge to fly away. It takes him a couple seconds to say anything, as he stares at the drawing.

“I think it’s a pretty good estimation. Looks better than I ever could,” the waiter, whose name tag has “Essi” on it, says. Crowley smiles at him, a tight smile, and Essi smiles back.

“My shift’s over in a sec. Would you like to come have a drink with me, or something?” Essi asks, and Crowley raises an eyebrow, thinking.

“I’d love to… but. I’ve got someone,” Crowley says, and Essi nods, understanding.

“Well. See you around, Mr. Crowley,” Essi says.

* * *

 

As Crowley begins drawing more and more detailed pieces in his sketchbook, which never seems to run out of pages, he expands his pen collection to color, and his pens never seem to run dry of ink.

He spends most of the time in the park, that park that is so remanent of St. James, and when the summer comes, he lies on the rocks, suns himself.

It’s been six Earth months since he’s seen Aziraphale the day that a shadow crosses over his form, blocking out the sun, and he opens his eyes to see a white-blonde man, standing next to his supine form.

“Is this seat taken?” Aziraphale, ever the gentleman, says, and Crowley pulls up his sunglasses, and blinks lazily up at him.

“By all means,” Crowley states, sitting up, as Aziraphale sits, cross-legged, next to him.

“I apologize for my absence,” Aziraphale states, after a brief moment of silence, and some shuffling, in which Aziraphale’s knee ends up brushing with Crowley’s.

“’S fair. I did convince us to abandon everything we knew,” Crowley says, in his sing-song, slurry way.

“You did, didn’t you? Anyways, it’s not fair of me to be mad at you. You wanted life, and I don’t blame you for it. Too often I found myself… obsessed, with Earth, I felt like I was part of the reason it… it was so messed up to begin with. And it’s over now, and there’s not really much we can do about that… so I see no reason for me to avoid you anymore,” Aziraphale says, “and I quite like this place. I tried something called a… well, I can’t remember, but it’s reminiscent of a crepe. Quite creamier, though.”

“I’d love to treat you to some,” Crowley says, and he’s casual, but he has a bright smile on his face, and he can’t help it, and Aziraphale can’t help smiling back, and that’s just it. 

They just smile at each other for so long.

* * *

 

Aziraphale is astounded when he finds out that Crowley doesn’t have a place.

“I just. Wander,” Crowley excuses himself.

“Even at night? Crowley, it’s been cold!” Aziraphale says, completely astounded.

“Yeah, I’m a demon, it’s not like I’m gonna get the sniffles,” Crowley snaps, and Aziraphale just scoffs as he unlocks the door to his townhouse.

"Well, It's no good that you haven't had a place to stay. Obviously you can stay at mine for as long as you care to," Aziraphale says, and Crowley just smirks at him as he walks into the roomy place, and throws himself on the heavily cushioned couch, made of a soft, cool fabric.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere else, angel," Crowley says, and Aziraphale just huffs, but a soft smile remains on his face, a smile that was in place throughout all of lunch, and their stroll throughout the park, and dinner.

"I'll put a kettle on," Aziraphale states, taking off his overcoat, and then, after a moment of hesitation, his suit coat, leaving him in his vest and long sleeved shirt, which he quickly rolls up the sleeves of, showing off his soft, slightly tanned arms. Crowley watches him putter around the living room, which Crowley also notices is wall to wall with books, in languages he's never even bothered to figure out in his short time here. Aziraphale disappears into the kitchen, and Crowley pauses for a moment before pulling his sketchbook and a blue en from his inner pocket, shedding the coat on the couch, and following Aziraphale into the kitchen.

"Well, you were quick to follow me," Aziraphale mutters, filling up the metal pot, decorated with carved flowers, before setting it on the stove.

"Got bored," Crowley excuses, and Aziraphale turns around, busying himself with something in the sink, and Crowley watches him for a second, trying to figure out how he's going to draw this.

The moment he sets pen to paper, however, Aziraphale is turned, looking at him.

"What in the blazes are you doing?" Aziraphale asks, not alarmed, necessarily, just confused.

"Drawing you. Stand still," Crowley snaps, and Aziraphale, suddenly impressed with himself, puffs up his chest.

"I said stand still, angel."

In response, Aziraphale's chest deflates a bit, annoyed with Crowley, and Crowley begins quickly drawing. The slope of his cheek, the gentle curve of his eyebrows, the galactic swirls in his robin's egg blue eyes. He draws, stopping just short at the shoulders, sloping them down into nothingness. He draws almost a full face.

"Are you quite done?" Aziraphale asks.

"I just... come here," Crowley says, and Aziraphale does. "I can never quite seem to get the chin," Crowley explains, lifting up Aziraphale's chin with two fingers, turning his head slightly to the left, then the right, then straight on, and the two watch each other.

"You're not drawing anymore," Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley, he's aware, he's always been aware, of the soft woodsy scent of Aziraphale's cologne, of the gentle warmth pouring from his being, of the soft aura of love and devotion coming from the angel, of the faint outline of his wings that Crowley has always, always been so aware of. He's aware of the closeness of his lips.

"I know," Crowley whispers in return, before pressing his lips to the angel's.

And they just. Stay like that. For about ten seconds. Then Crowley, the actual devil that he is, shifts his lips, and Aziraphale, a surprisingly adept partner, opens his mouth, and they're pressed up against together, and they're holding on to each other, just trying to get closer, closer,  _together_. Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale encircles Crowley's waist with his arms, and pulls him in closer, and there's a soft, visible glow around the two of them, and for the first time in years, Crowley feels like Heaven is really meant for him, for Aziraphale is his heaven.

There's a hissing behind them.

"That'll be the kettle," Aziraphale murmurs, pulling away from Crowley's lips, but staying connected to his body.

"Let it go," Crowley whispers. They aren't by any means whole, and Crowley knows that they're going to fight about what happened, and they're going to fight soon, but they will be okay.

They have eternity to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> I think that Crowley's drawings look just like. absolute ass. you could look at Crowley's art and the art made by placing ink and paper into a laundry machine and not tell the difference. anyways.


End file.
